Lorraine’s throat tightened.
“People are not all alike,” she said gently. “Some show what they feel easily. Others… require more time.”
Then, all at once, she felt it—a subtle shift, as though the air itself had altered.
She was being watched.
There had been no sound. The house lay quiet around them, save for the wind at the windows and the occasional settling of old timbers. Yet the sensation persisted—a prickle at the nape of her neck, a presence just beyond sight.
She turned her head, slightly, toward the door she had left ajar.
The corridor beyond was dark. Empty.
Then a floorboard creaked—a soft, betraying sound—and she caught the faintest suggestion of movement. Someone withdrawing. Someone who had stood there, unseen, listening.
The Duke.
Lorraine stilled, Thomas warm and drowsing in her arms, and listened as the silence deepened. Footsteps—barely perceptible—receding along the corridor. A distant door closing.
He had been there. Had heard the boy’s cries. Had watched—had listened—as she soothed him.
Had he meant to enter? Had he lingered, uncertain, held back by whatever it was that bound him so tightly within himself? Or had he merely passed and paused, drawn by the sound, only to retreat again?
She could not know.
But something in the house felt altered, as though a door—however slight—had shifted upon its hinges.
“Miss Weston?” Thomas’s voice was drowsy now, the terror fading into weariness. “Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”
“Of course, my dear.” She eased him back against the pillows, drawing the covers about him. “I shall remain as long as you wish.”
She sat upon the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly upon his chest, and watched as his eyes drifted closed. His breathing deepened. The traces of fear smoothed from his face, replaced by the quiet stillness of sleep.
Lorraine remained there until the moon had set and the first pale light of dawn crept through the windows. Then she bent and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead—a liberty she had not taken before, but which felt, in that moment, entirely right—and slipped from the room to prepare for the day.
She did not sleep again.
***
Breakfast in the nursery was a quiet affair. Jenny had brought up a tray—tea, toast, soft-boiled eggs, and a small pot of jam—and Lorraine was helping Thomas spread butter upon his bread when the door opened.
She looked up, expecting Mrs Potter—or Jenny returning for the tray.
The Duke of Ravenswood stood in the doorway.
Thomas went rigid. His knife slipped from his fingers and struck the plate with a small, betraying clatter. His face, which had been soft with the remnants of sleep, closed at once into that careful, guarded blankness.
Lorraine set down her teacup with deliberate composure. “Your Grace. Good morning.”
“Miss Weston.” His voice was rough, as though unused—or overused, in the long hours before dawn. “Thomas.”
The boy did not reply. His gaze remained fixed upon his plate.
An uncomfortable silence settled. Lorraine watched the Duke hesitate upon the threshold, plainly uncertain whether to advance or withdraw. He looked, she thought, like a man approaching something untamed—or perhaps like the untamed creature himself, wary of being caught.
“Will you join us?” she asked. “There is more than enough tea.”
He paused. His hand rose briefly toward his hair—that unconscious gesture she had already learned to recognise—then fell again.
